'I always tell My people there's a limit to the size of the lettering,' he said. 'Overdo that and the ret'na doesn't take it in. Advertisin' is the most delicate of all the sciences.'
'There's one man in the world who is going to get a little of it if I live for the next twenty-four hours,' said Woodhouse, and explained how this would come about.
Masquerier stared at him lengthily with gun-metal-blue eyes.
'You mean it?' he drawled; the voice was as magnetic as the look.
'I do,' said Ollyett. 'That business of the horn alone ought to have him off the Bench in three months.' Masquerier looked at him even longer than he had looked at Woodhouse.
'He told me, he said suddenly, 'that my home-address was Jerusalem. You heard that?'
'But it was the tone—the tone,' Ollyett cried.
'You noticed that, too, did you?' said Masquerier. 'That's the artistic temperament. You can do a lot with it. And I'm Bat Masquerier,' he went on. He dropped his chin in his fists and scowled straight in front of him. . . . 'I made the Silhouettes—I made the Trefoil and the Jocunda. I made 'Dal Benzaguen.' Here Ollyett sat straight up, for in common with the youth of that year he worshipped Miss Vidal Benzaguen of the Trefoil immensely and unreservedly. '"Is that a dressing-gown or an ulster you're supposed to be wearing?" You heard that? . . . "And I suppose you hadn't time to brush your hair either?" You heard that? . . .
